Emerie
I lifted my buzzing cell to my ear, catching the time as I did. Almost eleven p.m.—late for anyone to call.
“Hello?”
“Emerie?”
That voice. I didn’t have to ask who it was. In person, his voice was deep and raspy, but it was downright gravelly on the phone.
“Drew? Is everything okay?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“Because it’s sort of late.”
I heard the phone move around and then, “s**t. Sorry. I had no idea. I just looked at the time. I thought it was maybe nine.”
“Time flies when you spend most of the day in court with criminals, doesn’t it?”
“Guess so. I went back home, started to catch up on some work, then stopped in my office. I must’ve lost track of time.”
“I came back home, had a few glasses of wine, and felt sorry for myself some more. Your evening sounds way more productive. Are
